


Recovery Position

by Zarathastra



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Consensual BDSM, D/s relationship, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-13
Updated: 2015-07-13
Packaged: 2018-04-09 03:54:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4332897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zarathastra/pseuds/Zarathastra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What is this thing they have between them?  John no longer knows.  He doesn’t think about it too hard these days.  He only knows he has Sherlock back in his life and he’ll do anything to keep it that way.  Anything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Recovery Position

**Author's Note:**

> I’m still rubbish at case fics so again, in spite of appearances, this isn’t one. And as before I have no personal knowledge of the D/s lifestyle, so I hope my ignorance will be forgiven by anyone who is involved in the lifestyle. Self-beta’d, so any and all mistakes are my own.
> 
> Update: It's been pointed out in the comments to this story that I should have warned for BDSM. I'm sorry to have caused offence. The tags have now been updated accordingly.

Since Sherlock’s return, John found, it was more necessary than usual to wind down after the rush of dissecting a crime scene and catching a killer. There was more than one reason for this. Initially it had just been the rousing dose of sweet adrenaline in his veins, the sheer terror of facing down the gun, the knife, and the cold, dead eyes of the murderer. Or the dog. Sometimes it was the current of admiration that swept over him, watching Sherlock manoeuvre the many different elements of a crime scene like a maestro guiding an orchestra until they made a beautiful score that only he could interpret, leaving a layman like John floundering in his wake.

These days, after making sure that Sherlock was safe, he would suddenly fold in on himself and start to quake with reaction. The relief that they were both unharmed shook him to his bones and the lingering pictures of what might have gone wrong stubbornly played out at the back of his mind as he finally cleaned his gun and put it away.

It had only been a short while since Sherlock had started letting him come along on cases again. Not always, and not even the cases he would have been most useful at. John knew why, of course. He’d shown his hand, had demonstrated how very much in love he was, and how much he needed to have Holmes around at every moment to reassure himself that Sherlock was really there, that he wasn’t, after all, going insane as he’d feared. Sherlock, of course, had reacted accordingly, refusing to let him tag along, making a show of leaving the flat abruptly, leaving him behind again just to demonstrate to John how much of a git he really was. As if John didn’t know.

“You expect me to ask for permission to go outside?” John had said before Sherlock reached the sitting-room door, his lips drawn into a thin and angry line. 

“Do you want me to order you to stay here in future?” Sherlock said coldly. “Or make sure you have to?” 

John thought of the many occasions he’d been compelled to remain behind, most involving some kind of restraint and the mysterious disappearance of his clothes.

~~~

“I want you to understand what it means to accompany me to a significant crime scene,” Sherlock said now to John, who waited with an impatient scowl for an answer. ‘So much for having a submissive,’ Sherlock thought. “I won’t make any allowances for you and your irrational fears. If you come with me, it’s on my terns.” He didn’t want any of this exchange to indicate that he was giving way to John’s unreasonable need.

John closed his eyes, trying to banish the images conjured up by his treacherous mind. 

Sherlock hurt. Sherlock dying. Sherlock gone forever. 

It hadn’t happened. Sherlock was here now, there was nothing to fear. John was making sure it would never happen again. “And what are those?” he asked hoarsely, trying to guess what Sherlock held in his hand. He found out soon enough.

“This will take some thought and detailed preparation, John,” Sherlock said. “You need to know under what conditions you’re allowed to go with me. Not just on the next occasion, but on all future incidents of this nature.”

‘Standard lecture coming up’, John thought.

Sherlock was still talking. “If you are invited to accompany me in future” he said, “you will not question anything I say or do. You will remain quiet so as not to break my concentration; speak only when directed to, and when asked you will render such assistance as may be required. Of course you may interact with Lestrade or any member of his team while we’re at the crime scene but you won’t involve me in whatever inane conversation you are drawn into, unless it’s relevant to the case, so no football, no talk of ‘birds’, or anything equally tedious.”

It felt to John as though there was more to come. He was right.

“And before we set off, you will dress yourself appropriately.”

John frowned at him, before looking down at his own clothes. He was wearing his usual style of clothing. Jeans, white t-shirt, plaid over shirt, black jacket, comfortable shoes ideal for running. Gun. So, fully dressed, then.

“I don’t mean your outer wear, or your rather poorly concealed firearm,” Sherlock told him. “You’re not fully dressed for the evening. There are some things I need to add to your ensemble.” He smiled brightly and the tone of his voice suddenly changed. “I think you’ll find them most reassuring. Come here, John, let me dress you.”

John shivered at the sound of that voice and the sight of what was in his Dom’s hand. He was used to this by now, Sherlock’s version of caring. It was a sign of how in need he was that he accepted it without a murmur. There must be something wrong with him, he thought, to want this as much as he did. The John Watson he’d been before would never have stood for this.

But that was the anger talking. This new John Watson was so thankful for Sherlock’s return that he’d say yes to anything right now. It didn’t occur to him to wonder if that was a completely sane thing to be thinking.

“This is a reminder, should you need one,” Sherlock told him. “While I was absent I may have wished at times for your presence and your expertise at my side but just now I need to know I’d be able to trust you not to jeopardise either a delicate crime scene or my actions with baseless hysterics. Do you think you’ve learned to let go of your fears, even by this small amount?”

John couldn’t quite meet his gaze. “I…I…don’t know,” he whispered in honest acknowledgement. It was still too raw, too new, not to feel so alone any longer. Sherlock was right there in front of him and still John missed him, and he didn’t know how long that gut reaction was going to last.

“I see,” Sherlock said, and watched John’s face fall in sheer disappointment.

His initial response to John’s words was his default setting, a sense of complete irritation that John was still finding it nigh on impossible to move on from his grief. He was still clutching it to him desperately. Sherlock knew where the reaction came from. He could still feel the impact of John’s fist and that rather eloquent Glasgow Kiss John had delivered. Whoever taught John Watson to fight had done a thorough job; the resultant headache had lasted for days afterwards.

He kept his voice quiet and calm. “I came back, John. I’m not a phantom. In spite of your Scottish antecedents I didn’t know you actually believed in ‘goulies and ghosties and things that go bump in the night’. How long will it take before you start to believe in me?” There was no reply but Sherlock knew the answer. 

‘Not yet. Maybe never.’ 

He could see clearly how much John was still holding the sorrow close to himself, not trying to hide it as had been his way before, but almost revelling in it, grasping it to prolong Sherlock’s guilt and justify his own sense of entitlement, demonstrating how alone he still felt. He was defiantly trying to show that he really didn’t care all that much that Sherlock was back and simultaneously clinging to him, desperate for his attention. John was standing strong, demonstrating that life had gone on without Sherlock Sodding Holmes, depending on no-one now but himself. 

‘Tedious,’ Sherlock thought. Tedious rubbish, besides. One little push in the right direction, one little word in the right moment, and John would crumple.

And then Sherlock experienced a sudden pang of guilt. He’d thought he knew but he hadn’t really appreciated just how deep this hurt had gone or how long it would last. Mending hurts wasn’t his business, it was John’s, and as suddenly as that the annoyance was back. Anger was more acceptable than feeling guilty. It was irritating, he thought, since normally it would have been John he turned to for advice on a matter of this nature. Under the circumstances he had no-one else to fall back on for such guidance. He reflected on his options for a moment or two, let his anger dissipate.

“Very well,” he said after considering, “then this is how it will be. Stand here, please.” He indicated the space in front of his chair and John moved slowly to stand in front of him, step by step, as if he were being dragged there.

“You’ve seen what I have in my hands, yes?”

John simply closed his eyes and nodded. He didn’t want to look at the objects but equally he couldn’t look away.

“Then you know what to do in order to achieve the result I desire. Don’t you?”

They both knew what he referred to. Sherlock wasn’t going to spell it out. He waited for John to move again, watching the process with interest and a tiny smile. John was clever, not of course as clever as Sherlock himself, but he always knew what was expected of him, an admirable trait in a dutiful sub, and John, Sherlock had found, was an exceptionally obedient submissive. That had surprised him when he first discovered the way of it. It was amazing what the promise of sex could achieve. The slightest hint that it was what he desired had John instantly giving him everything he wanted with no question.

The shirt came off first. John didn’t even bother with the buttons, just pulled it off, briefly catching his hands in the sleeves, and threw it down, nearly tearing the fabric. It was an ugly thing, Sherlock thought, an old, tired, plaid rag which John really should have replaced some time ago but clung to, probably out of financial necessity. He would have offered monetary help to allow John to obtain more stylish, up to date garments, but he already knew what John’s likely reaction to that offer would be, so kept his financial proposal to himself. Pity, he thought, John should always look well turned-out.

The shirt landed limply on the floor, the T-shirt John wore beneath it came next, followed by his jeans, shoes and socks and finally his underwear. John straightened from balling his socks up and shoving them into his shoes and looked steadily into his eyes.

Sherlock breathed in lightly at the sight, a display which had the usual effect on him. He wanted John badly in that moment. That was impressive. How long had it taken? Five seconds? Ten?

‘How brave you are to place such trust me,’ he thought, ‘how brave and how stupid.’

Choices, choices…John splendidly naked, offering himself without limitations, versus a fresh crime scene, complete with a newly made corpse and numerous clues which would probably lead him inexorably to a killer? It was a tough selection, but he found a solution which would ensure he actually wouldn’t need to make a choice at all in the end.

“You know what to do,” he said, and handed one of the articles in his hand over to John. “Take your time.”

~~~

The next minutes were entirely enjoyable for Sherlock. He watched closely as John’s shaking hand dipped to his lower belly and then lower, caressing himself unhurriedly, shuddering and taking care not to be too rough with himself. Sweat pooled in the hollow of John’s throat, and then popped out all over his face. He breathed heavily with frustration, knowing exactly how far he could push this, just so far and no farther. The weight of his own flesh grew solid in his hand and he pulled harder, panting in sheer anticipation, trying to hurry before the next command came. He wasn’t quite successful.

“Stop!”

Sherlock didn’t need to give another order, because John knew what was expected and was so good at anticipating instructions. He waited as John worked the black leather ring in trembling fingers, watching closely as John ran the lesson through in his head. John had long since pushed through the initial humiliation to imprison his own hardening flesh in the tight confines of the little contraption and this time was no exception.

There was a stirring in Sherlock’s own flesh as John’s shaking hands held the thick leather ring long enough to warm it through and try to make it soft enough not to hurt. He wrapped it around the base of his erection before drawing the wicked, delicate little strap forward and between his testicles and fastening the thing at the front, closing his eyes and panting in sheer, thwarted gratification. 

Sherlock leaned forward to inspect what John had done. “That’s it,” he said, reaching to squeeze the trapped erection lightly in his hand and caress the hardening balls. He began a mental countdown, knowing just how long John could endure this before he would need to be freed or suffer damage. In spite of his own sense of entitlement, Sherlock really didn’t want that. He experienced a moment of excitement and annoyance. There would be no going back to the crime scene now. He suddenly wondered which of them was actually in charge here.

For his part John started breathing harshly as he let his hands drop to his sides and waited impatiently for what Sherlock was going to do next.

“This should give you something to divert you,” Sherlock said. “But is it enough? I imagine you’ll probably require something a little more distracting, won’t you?”  
John had seen this bit coming. He was shivering almost constantly now, hungrily watching the plastic rod held in Sherlock’s graceful hand.

“How you love this,” Sherlock murmured. “No matter what else I do you’ll always want this, won’t you?” He held the rod up, waiting. More words weren’t necessary; all he had to do was hang on. He didn’t have that long to wait.

“Please, Sherlock, please. Put it in me…” John groaned, his mouth suddenly flooding with saliva. His breath hitched and he let go and allowed himself to be guided to whatever Sherlock wanted. He didn’t even question whether the rod was completely clean and knew better than to ask. He didn’t need the lecture just now. Knowing Sherlock he guessed it would be spotlessly clean but just now he wouldn’t have cared too much if it wasn’t. It all came down to a matter of conviction. Doctor Watson seemed to have buggered off somewhere and all that was left was John, and he needed this so badly he was prepared to trust that Sherlock had enough thought for his safety to keep the trappings of his authority hygienic.

It could have been ridiculous, John there letting his body be turned and bent and caressed and guided to kneel, but curiously it wasn’t. It was what John needed and all part of what they were to each other now. Sherlock took his time looking at John’s body, making note of the many imperfections, the fascinating pattern of scarring, the hair that sprouted in such unusual places and the slight pot belly that John had never quite been able to get rid of. John was to be admired for trying but Sherlock still thought he and Mary had been right, John had put several pounds on since Sherlock’s return.

He watched the resignation on John’s face as he knelt there on all fours waiting patiently for Sherlock’s next action. In spite of his neediness he seemed to be acknowledging that there were two possible outcomes to this. He was either going to get some relief, or he wasn’t. At the moment it didn’t seem to matter to John which it would be.

It gave Sherlock a slight pang to see this total deference. So much had changed since he’d been away. He had to know more about the new John Watson he’d returned to. If it was still necessary to John to keep nothing for himself and give himself so completely in this way then Sherlock found it was necessary to indulge him, at least for the time being. Besides, he couldn’t deny that he was looking forward to both solving the crime and returning here to the flat. These days he took almost as much pleasure in being enclosed within the tight circle of John’s body as he did at deducing the last moments of a newly murdered corpse. And that feeling was so recent he couldn’t quite fathom how quickly it had developed.

For now, though, the dual purpose of the exercise was both to provide a little well-judged meddling with John’s actions at the crime scene and to give himself the opportunity to study John without him being aware of the scrutiny. Two birds, one stone.

Sherlock liberally coated the shaft of beads with lubricant and probed at John’s entrance with a couple of slick fingers, stretching the ring of muscle little by little before replacing the finger with the beads and gently pushing until the tip of the rod began the slow, careful slide into the yielding flesh he now regarded as his personal property. 

He anticipated the hours to come. He would dissemble, let John come along and give his medical opinion on what became of the poor unfortunate Mr Banks but for once the real subject of the investigation was to be John himself. 

Sherlock wanted to know how John would react to being with him out there, given their current connection, the two of them most probably well on the way to facing some kind of danger, even of the second-hand variety. To his own surprise Sherlock found that on this occasion he wasn’t really that interested in the danger or the crime scene. There was more interest to be had in the presence of these hidden accessories of plastic and leather and what they would help to reveal about the man who had captivated him at first sight, all those years ago.

Something had changed while he was gone, he just needed to know if it had changed irrevocably, or if he could somehow get back the man he’d left behind. John was right here and still Sherlock missed him. There was just no laughter any more.

“That’s it,” he murmured, watching as the bright orange beads slowly popped into John’s passage, each bead larger than the one before, producing a series of deep groans from John’s mouth as each one was received, pushing the rim of John’s passage wider and wider before being accepted and swallowed up, each expansion accompanied by a shuddering moan. “You’re doing well. I’m proud of you.”

The very fact that John wasn’t protesting or telling him to remove the rod spoke volumes. He had accepted the discomfort of the intrusion without a word; he really was going to let Sherlock push it all the way into him up to the very last bead, up to the base that contained the flat surface which acted as a safety measure. It may even be time to purchase a larger, heavier set of beads, Sherlock thought with relish. Or a nice set of metal balls in heavy steel, perhaps, coloured in silver or metallic blue. That would be most attractive and watching John struggle to accept them would be even better than this. He wanted to see that, John with his mouth open, panting, eyes closed and body shivering and sweating.

There was silence for a few moments as Sherlock stared at the tableau John made, the physical manifestation of his mental surrender. No doubt John was expecting another boring night spent at home like this, waiting for Sherlock to return and pay attention to him in the usual fashion. Sherlock watched him mentally preparing himself, taking on the discomfort he was in. “Come along, John,” he said, not allowing any concessions to John’s need. “Get dressed. Quickly please, or Lestrade will be on the phone asking where we are.”

John stood up carefully, panting and wincing as something bit into some sensitive area, turning to face him. He was quite a sight just as he was. “You mean I…”

“I want you to come with me,” Sherlock confirmed impatiently, watching his face closely. “I may need to call on your medical expertise, and besides I would rather you were present to observe the proceedings as opposed to staying here imagining all the things that could go wrong.”

John didn’t move a muscle but Sherlock saw it anyway, the way he seemed to shrink into himself with sheer relief. 

“Now get dressed, and be quick about it,” he said, and left John to it.

~~~

John’s movements were careful. He was determined to endure this, was not going to let it affect how he operated at the scene of the crime and he certainly wasn’t going to let either Sherlock or himself down. He was hyper-aware of his surroundings, alert for any change and focussed on everything Sherlock was doing, even as he paid the taxi driver.

“At last,” Lestrade griped as he saw them. “You took your time.”

“Do you need me or don’t you?” Sherlock challenged and John was absurdly pleased to note the way he was with Greg, just the same as he was with John himself, it seemed. Was there actually anyone in the whole world that Sherlock respected?

“Come along, John,” Sherlock zeroed in on the victim, waiting only as long as it took for John to join him before he started his ‘deductions’.

“Any outward symptoms of what killed him?” Sherlock asked as John sank slowly to go down on one knee beside the body, pulling a pair of surgical gloves out of his pocket and pressing his lips firmly together as a wave of thwarted pleasure shot through him.

“John?” Sherlock pressed.

“Stabbed. With…with a metal comb it looks like, one of those hairdressing salon ones with a long handle. Used with some force”

“A metal comb,” Sherlock stated wryly. He already knew the murder weapon had been a thin, stiletto-like dagger. It currently resided in an evidence bag in Lestrade’s coat pocket.

“Well, that’s what it looks like,” John said a little defensively. “No doubt the autopsy will fetch up something more specific.”

“I’m sure,” Sherlock said. There was something in the air now, he felt it. “What about the front of the body?”

“Give me a minute,” John ground out. He moved cautiously from his kneeling position and shifted around to inspect the front of Mr Banks’ business suit. As he did so Sherlock noted the little gasp as John’s trapped erection pressed more firmly against the seam of his jeans and the movements he made to ease the pressure caused the rod of beads to shift inside him. He smiled. Yes, John was in some discomfort just now.

“Anything else?” he asked, watching John’s clever hands trying to deduce the end of a life. He wasn’t quite prepared for the answer or for what happened next.

“Yes. Mr Banks had a weak heart,” John ground out, and suddenly lunged at the suspect, Mr Gerald Banks’ brother Colin. Those healer’s hands were wrapped around the man’s throat and he was evidently about to add to the body count.

“Bloody hell!” Lestrade barked as one of his officers pulled John off the suspect. “Sherlock, get him out of here!”

Stunned into silence, Sherlock hand no choice but to comply.

~~~

John was surprised when, upon returning home, Sherlock didn’t immediately react to the events at the crime scene. He didn’t exercise his authority, didn’t swan off to the kitchen to go over the crime scene evidence and criticise John’s brief notes and for a whole twenty minutes it was almost like being in a normal person’s flat.

“You okay?” he asked as Sherlock settled in his chair and seemed to watching the detective show John had chosen with some interest.

“Thank you, yes.”

Sherlock had said nothing about removing the beads or the cock ring. But John was used to that. He more often than not had to wait for hours to get his relief. It was usually satisfying when it happened. Shifting slightly in his chair he could only hope against hope that Sherlock appreciated his help at the crime scene before it all went pear-shaped and was thinking of ways to reward him. But even he had to admit that the hope was pretty forlorn.

At the crime scene Sherlock hadn’t for once been thinking of how good it was to master such a strong man. John had provided a great deal of data at the scene in the short time before everything went to pot, and he was going over it all in enhanced detail, discarding the mundane or surplus and keeping the uncharacteristic for future reference.

John shivered, pretending he didn’t understand the silence. Sherlock was furious with him for getting them kicked off the crime scene. How could John tell him that, given the same circumstances, he’d probably do it again and the last person Sherlock needed at a crime scene was him?

“Sorry, Sherlock,” he said, deflated now and a little apprehensive. Whatever Sherlock had to say to him he probably deserved. His own angry sense of injustice was nothing compared to the importance of finding out the truth. “I couldn’t help it, he was so smug. Please let me come with you next time. Please.” He’d dropped completely now, totally in submissive mode and waiting for whatever punishment he was due.

“And you think I should, after that display?”

“Please.”

He lived for this as much as Sherlock did. And the detective knew why it had happened. John was putting Sherlock himself in the place of Gerald Banks, lying there dead at the hand of random fortune.

It was time to lay down some hard and fast rules.

“I may consider it,” he said and watched John fold in on himself with relief. “On certain conditions. Firstly, no punching suspects, no matter how much you may feel they deserve it.”

Well, John had expected that. It would be pointless to rally himself to point out how much of an evil tosser the suspect was. They’d already known that. But he really hadn’t been able to help it. Anyone who could deliberately do a thing like that deserved everything they got.

“And before we leave the flat you will follow any instruction I give you to the letter.”

For instance, Sherlock mused, after some initial discomfort, John could very easily bear to attend crime scenes while wearing some kind of chastity device, or while being tormented by a necessary form of punishment. Or, he thought, simply a means of controlling him when at large. To Sherlock it was all good. And to John, too, probably, if that expression on his face was anything to go by.

Just as well his attention had wandered, Sherlock thought as he briefly came back into the room from the depths of his Mind Palace. If he’d actually been watching this unwatchable programme he’d have been bored witless by now. Not only a plot that was completely implausible, but to add insult to injury there was a corpse which obligingly closed its eyes while the camera was on it but when it panned away too slowly suddenly opened them again. The corpse would soon find himself drummed out of Equity for that, he thought.

He tapped his fingers on his thigh. This was beyond boring, beyond intolerable. He’d waited long enough.

He looked over at John, there in his chair pretending to be engrossed. Saw the way his pupils dilated, the way his breath hitched and he breathed out noisily. Enough was enough; he’d been pitiless enough for one night. It was actually exhausting.

“Well?”

John had been pretending to be watching the show too but he’d been miles away. He’d been wondering why it had been this man who’d driven the fight out of him and forced him to his knees so completely. Others, many others, had wanted him; some had even wanted him this way. Their faces still came to him in the dark but he never thought he would ever tell Sherlock the truth about that.

He was wrong, of course, Sherlock would choose the time, as he always did, and would find out the whole sorry story.

At that single word from Sherlock a sharp stab of longing went through him, followed by that satisfying rush of adrenaline that always left him shaking. He shifted in his chair deliberately, just to feel the beads relentlessly tormenting his passage. He was getting sore.

He pushed to his feet and stood still for a moment, just looking at Sherlock. His lover. His love. Then he took a slow step forward, and another. He took the last reluctant step to stand in front of Sherlock’s chair, before he started taking off his clothes. In the Army he’d been taught both how to get dressed in a hurry, and how to strip even faster. 

And, presumably, Sherlock thought, watching the process and looking at John’s shirt, he must also have been taught how to put his clothes on inside out.

“Do you have something to say, John?” he asked, waiting for the vocalisation of the answer he could already read on John’s face. It was time for the truth, then. Or one of them.

“You said…” John began, then stopped, and then tried again, his chest heaving with effort. “You said that when we first met something in me knelt down at your feet.” And he blushed scarlet at his own words but all the same went slowly to his knees, letting go of the last shred of whatever dignity still remained to him. “Well, you were right.”

“I simply observed. Your posture stiffened,” Sherlock explained, not unkindly. “You clasped your hands together at the small of your back. You briefly bowed your head, then stood there stock still at parade rest as if awaiting instruction and I knew. Had we been alone you would have gone to your knees right there and then, right in the middle of Stamford’s lab.”

John mentally tried to claw his way out of the depths of his pointless guilt. “You were right. You were always right,” he said, kneeling there now, naked before his natural superior, and Sherlock didn’t even need to deduce anything more because it was all there in John’s face. He only had to wait a little while, and then John was letting it all go, telling him what was in the depths of his heart. 

“I needed you,” John stammered, and although Sherlock kept the thought off his face he marvelled, thinking he’d never seen such courage in all his life. “From the first moment we met I knew I’d do anything for you, but then you already knew that, didn’t you? I didn’t know how to make you want to stay with me. But then I went back to the bedsit and you sent me that text message and it was like you’d thrown me a lifeline, it was the most brilliant thing that ever happened to me. And I can’t go on without you,” he added, throwing caution to the wind, surrendering completely, “not any more. So either you take me on, Sherlock Holmes, or tell me to go and I’ll leave right now and…”

“And go to find Mary?” Sherlock queried, trying to keep the bitter tone out of his voice.

“Mary? No.” John sighed a little for the loss of the fantasy of the ‘normal’ life he’d thought he wanted as it receded into the distance. “I couldn’t do it, and she knew that. I played at being married to her and she pretended to like it. It worked for a while; she was so kind, but then…”

“I came back.”

“You came back.”

There was more there, to do with Mary and John’s marriage. And possibly more than that. Sherlock wanted to know, but he instinctively guessed that now wasn’t the time. He would have to wait to investigate that can of worms and deduce what particular species they might be.

“So, what then? You’ll stay, and then what? I take you on?”

John saw this as what it was. His last chance to back out. 

“You take me on.” He smelled burning. That was his last bridge gone, then. No way back.

“For how long?” Sherlock asked, not above sticking the knife in just a little, even now.

John’s breath hitched at the thought of the uncertain future he might be dependently walking into blindfolded, hands tied, and the bleak one he might be left with if he walked away. 

“For as long as you want me,” he said. It was hard to say those words, harder to accept what they meant, but having given in so completely he had nothing left to lose now by finally letting go of everything he was. Sherlock would either give it all back to him, or he wouldn’t. It really didn’t matter.

Sherlock frowned at him. “And you would be content with that?” He tried to stamp out his disappointment ruthlessly. John was willing to let him go now; after all they’d been through, after waiting all this time? “If I decided this arrangement no longer suited me and ordered you to leave, you would leave?”

‘No!’ John thought desperately. ‘I want you forever. However you want me, for as long as we live.’ That bit was hard to admit, even to himself. He could feel Captain Watson’s anger and despair deep inside but paid it no mind.

And Sherlock knew, John thought. Of course he did. He loved having a sub who was so strong yet could be easily compelled by his own nature, who would do whatever he was told in a way that surpassed even military training. It was exciting and frightening to feel the truth of that.

John bowed his head.

‘Ah,’ Sherlock thought. ‘Not as straightforward as all that.’

“I see,” he said. “Well, I think that’s enough telly for one night, don’t you?” And he picked up the remote and flicked the screen off. 

~~~

If John had thought he’d won out over the crime scene, he was mistaken. He lay there realising that at best Sherlock had reached a compromise.

John was on his belly, stretched out on Sherlock’s bed. The ring still held him tightly; the beads had definitely been in too long. He wanted them out, right now. But oh, the ache was breathtaking.

He flexed his shoulders; the contrast between the ruined flesh on his left hand side and the over-developed muscles he’d worked at to compensate for it on his right was unbalanced and had done him no favours.

He knew better than to ask Sherlock to help.

“You’re rubbish at this,” he ventured.

He certainly was. He was lying there on top of John actually reading. Crime scene evidence, things he should have already picked up about Mr Banks if he’d been concentrating earlier. He had a sheaf of notes in his hand, there were crime scene photos spread out all over the bed, some had fallen onto the floor.

“So, did you actually pay any attention to what I told you about the body?” John asked. “Or was I just wasting my breath?”

There was a faint buzzing noise coming from somewhere as Sherlock attempted to read the notes John had made. It sounded like words, which might actually be whole sentences if he’d taken the time to listen.

Someone kept on talking while he was trying to read. Sherlock was so distracted by the aftermath of the crime scene that he actually forgot that he was lying on top of John and that John might have something to say about it.

John sighed patiently, looking over his shoulder at the stack of items on the bed. He recognised his own current notebook, containing his latest crime scene notes and a couple of pictures, his own laptop. How did Sherlock keep doing that? He’d changed his password again only last night. When was Sherlock going to come out of his fugue and start deducting? John waited for that brilliant moment, but it was slow in coming. The sooner Sherlock wrapped up the case of Mr Banks to his own satisfaction the sooner John would get…well…satisfaction.

Had John known it the amount of time Sherlock’s deductions were taking had nothing to do with the crime scene notes, or the evidence, or anything else that John imagined? It was taking longer than usual because he’d retreated to his Mind Palace, where his attention had been cleverly diverted by the image of John’s frustration as he tried to cope with the cock ring and ball spreader as well as the anal beads. It was slightly annoying but at the same time he appreciated the sight that John presented. The doctor was even squirming, trying to do something for himself.

“Stop that!” Sherlock barked, and both the John in his Mind Palace and the one squashed under him on his bed stopped moving. There had come a time during this languid afternoon that Sherlock had grudgingly realised it may at last be time to reward John for his endurance. But you never admitted such a thing to a submissive.

“This is not for you, John. It’s for me. You wanted me not to be dead. Well, I am not. I’m here and in your gratitude you will do as I say. And right now I say you will accept what I am giving you and you will be grateful.”

John remembered his own words. Yes, he’d been given what he asked for. So he fought his own heartache, clawed his way out of his unnecessary grief and slowly let it go. Not too many people got to do that, but not too many people returned from the dead, he supposed. He closed his eyes and just breathed quietly. Sherlock was here, he thought, Sherlock was here. Not dead. Sherlock knew him well by now, deduced what he was feeling and resolved to put an end to it.

He climbed off John’s back and carefully prepared to remove the rod of beads. His slight tug at the end of the rod met with no resistance, so the lubrication he’d applied was still fluid and doing its job. Research was a wonderful thing.

John was panting heavily and the thought suddenly occurred to Sherlock that a little distraction might be in order, that John might appreciate it if this particular operation were not conducted in absolute silence. He fished for the right words for a moment, feeling the slight resistance as the beads came free. And as they did, so did the words he was looking for.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he said. “What could you have done, John? You didn’t let me down or fail to defend me; I don’t need you to be my protector, that’s not why I need you. I’ve been doing that job for myself, from quite an early age. I know that’s the role you wish to take upon yourself but it’s not necessary.” He didn’t mention the fact that by leaving he’d tried to be John’s protector in return. One of them being an acknowledged idiot was sufficient.

“It is sometimes,” John said quietly, enduring the dull pain as the beads finally slipped out and closing his eyes in a curious, aching contentment as Sherlock laid them aside and took their place, taking his time and inserting himself carefully, aware of John’s every breath. John may have loved the piercing soreness and the feeling of being filled but Sherlock was determined not to cause unnecessary hurt, of any description, right at this moment.

“Not any longer,” he said.

He’d learned a lot over the past two years out there in a world without John. Why didn’t John understand? It wasn’t a case of needing John, it was a case of wanting him, which, he supposed, boiled down to the same thing in the end.

“Then what am I here for?”

The words Sherlock wanted to say wouldn’t come. ‘Just be my love’. He couldn’t voice it. He had no experience to speak of but he wondered if men actually said such things to each other. Did they? People were as individual as their DNA. Even if they generally did make such admissions in the dark, in warm rooms with arms wrapped around each other - and he had no idea whether they did or not - one didn’t normally use words like that to John Watson. They made him desperately uncomfortable. Still less did one say things like that to John Watson in submissive mode. It wouldn’t be appropriate. If he didn’t want to say it, he knew for certain that John didn’t want to hear it and he could wait until hell froze over but John would never return those words out loud, not the way he wanted to hear them.

He pushed forward and felt John shudder around him.

“Deeper,” John whined. “Harder.”

“I can’t,” Sherlock panted. “You’ve taken all I have.” It was true. He felt the walls of John’s passage tight around him; there was very little room to move in there.

John’s face turned to stare at him. He looked as if he didn’t believe him.

“Is this how you see me,” Sherlock wondered, “So omnipotent? I’m nothing of the kind.”

But he was to John. Wasn’t that the point?

“I’m just a man,” Sherlock said. “One who’s currently having you, as you wished. Didn’t you?”

Yes, he had. He did. He turned his head awkwardly to try to see Sherlock’s face.

“Please. Please, don’t stop.”

So Sherlock didn’t. He let his own momentum shake them both, learning anew that John’s arse was as soft as a pillow as he pounded it, cushioning his bones and stealing his breath. The little thief was taking as much as he was given. That was a revelation. He wondered if John knew it.

John certainly knew he was being thoroughly taken. His sore anus might have been rubbed raw but he wasn’t objecting. This was making him feel alive and wanted. He couldn’t get enough of the feeling. And then, too soon, Sherlock’s dick hit the right spot, and hit it, and hit it, and John felt himself gathering in and then flying apart. There wasn’t enough space in the room to contain the strength of his orgasm. He screamed at the top of his voice and rutted into the mattress below him, belatedly dropping his head to the pillow to muffle the sound, guessing vaguely that he was probably too late and Mrs Hudson had heard it all.

~~~

Sherlock had experienced quite a nice orgasm, had delivered some powerful ejaculate up John’s arse and then after dropping a kiss to John’s wounded shoulder, where he was sure not to feel it through the scar tissue, had fallen asleep on his back. 

Now, waking to a warm, wet sensation in his groin, he smiled. He found he liked having a submissive, and this particular one came with so many fringe benefits. Patience, willing submission, a knack for being at the right place at the right time. This arrangement suited him very well.

He withdrew slowly, slipped out quite easily really thanks to the applied lubrication and his own natural fluid. John didn’t wake, and he was grateful for that. He needed to finish working before he could indulge himself any longer. Having had the brain wave he left the room and came back with his laptop. 

He was innocently going over his thoughts on the case, his theories and the reasons for those theories, when he found himself getting inexplicably hard again. He looked at his notes, then at John’s arse. They’d both turned him on. He wasn’t going to tell John that, though. He just parked his laptop on John’s naked back, slid inside him and carried on writing his notes. There was time.

~~~

When John woke up he could feel both his own erection hard underneath him and Sherlock’s hard inside him. But Sherlock was no longer moving. He wasn’t doing anything, in fact.

John’s brow furrowed as he frowned into the pillow. “Is my arse boring you?” he asked.

Sherlock blinked as he realised John was awake. Ah, this was an example of an opportunity to try out the caring thing. He must have been a little remiss in reassuring John. And the lack of movement must be slightly disquieting. He wasn’t really taking care of John at this moment, as was his duty.

Mind made up, he withdrew carefully and turned John onto his back. John whined, actually whined, with the loss of contact.

“Patience, John,” Sherlock said, and reached for John’s genitals. John looked up at him and gasped in wonder as Sherlock’s clever fingers managed to caress him without setting off an immediate and explosive orgasm. He didn’t understand why he was being rewarded in this way but he’d take it any way he could get it right now.

“Just one more time, John. You, as a doctor, should know when enough is enough, especially in the field of male orgasm, but we’re not quite there yet. I want you to understand who it is giving you the gift of pleasure and to appreciate it and be grateful.” He watched John panting for a moment. “You’re addicted to me,” he said gently. “You’re replacing an addiction to danger with an addiction to me.” He watched John’s face for a moment, “I note that you don’t contradict me. That’s excellent, John, it’s good that we both know the truth of it.”

It was better this way, being able to see John’s face. He gently pushed in deeper and felt John’s happy sigh and the ripple that went through him. Cause and effect.

“This process may be somewhat repetitive but, you may have noticed by now how enthusiastic I am about fucking you.” He made another deep thrust to put emphasis on his use of the earthy description. “The end result is surprisingly pleasant. It’s not that your arse has no value to me, simply that this particular aspect of the case is fascinating, too.”

He knew how the sex worked, he’d read about it before even attempting to put his knowledge into practice. The physical aspects and reactions and how they tied into the emotional release had made interesting reading. This practical application was something else again. He wondered how much of the curiosity he was experiencing was because it was John lying there beneath him. 

It was time to find out.

He swept the case notes onto the floor and grasped one of John’s arse cheeks in each hand, staring at the puffy red ring snuggled around him that gave them both such pleasure. The case could wait, after all Mr Banks wasn’t going anywhere.

~~~

Sherlock leaned on his bent elbow, looking down at John.

“You remember the gift I gave you? You remember what it felt like when I allowed you the freedom of my body? Would you like to have that freedom again, some time in the future?”

John’s first impulse was to say no, he didn’t want that. It wouldn’t help, he only wanted this. But then he thought about it, remembered what it had felt like to be inside Sherlock that one singular time and was no longer so sure. Maybe one day, when he didn’t feel so much in need and when the angry soldier and the tormented doctor had stopped fighting and become reconciled, he would feel able.

“Can I think about it?”

“Of course.”

John couldn’t help himself. That insignificant, lonely man he’d let himself become over the last two years still existed somewhere inside him but Sherlock was nonetheless the centre of his world and he wanted to keep it that way. If his Dom wanted things that way, who was he to argue?

“If you never want me this way again, you only have to say,” he offered quietly. “I’ll do whatever you want, I swear, just...”

“Just don’t leave you,” Sherlock added for him. It had been a rhetorical question at best. He would always want John just like this and would never understand why John didn’t know that. Instinct told him this wasn’t the time to question John’s motives in offering himself in this way, so generously, so unconditionally. Lucky for John he was so thoughtful and caring, he mused. “Are you still afraid of that?” he asked curiously.

There was nothing for it but to tell him the truth. “Yes,” John whispered.

Sherlock smiled at him almost like a normal person. “That’s my good boy,” he said, stroking John’s hair. “But there’s no need. Don’t you know, John, didn’t you work it out? We’ll never be done.”

John’s eyes closed in bottomless relief.

 

End


End file.
